


Coming home to you

by Akikofuma



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Broken Heart Syndrom, DEATH PEOPLE, Depression, Ficlet, Hurt/No Comfort, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Sadness, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: “Go, sweet wolf,” Jaskier says, words hushed. “You don’t need to stay with me. I won’t make you watch. Go and save the world, and remember me the way I am now. Full of life, and so in love with you.”He’s tempted to leave. To tuck tail and run. Watching Jaskier die is too hard, too much to ask.“No,” he rasps instead. “I’ve run from you long enough. No more.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 116





	Coming home to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minutiae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minutiae/gifts).



"Come with me," Geralt almost begs. "You said you forgive me; walk the path with me as you did before."

"I can't," Jaskier breathes, his words barely above a whisper. "I can't Geralt. I wish that I could."

"Why not?" the Witcher presses on, unwilling to accept the bard’s statement.

"Because I'm dying, Geralt," the poet sighed, hands shaking as they came up to cover his face. "Shani, I- I passed out during a performance- she says my heart.." The words taper off, echoing in the silence of Geralt's mind.

"..Dying," he repeats flatly. His bard was dying of a broken heart. His human would perish, long before Geralt had thought; much sooner than he could accept. All the time he had wasted, the decades he’d denied them- “Shani,” he rasped out. “There must be a way- something she can do.”

He couldn’t lose Jaskier, not now. Not ever, if he was honest. But even less now, so soon after they’d reunited. 

“She tried,” the bard mumbled, closing the distance between them in a few, shaky steps. His forehead coming to rest against Geralt’s, enveloping the Witcher in the scent he’d become so familiar with; a scent that meant  _ home,  _ and  _ happy _ , and most importantly  _ safe _ . 

“Yen then,” Geralt forced out; barely realizing he’d wrapped his arms around the poet's leaner frame, holding tight, too tight; unable to stop himself. Jaskier was slipping away. Each beat of the human’s heart tearing it apart further. 

“She’s good, beloved wolf; but even she cannot fix everything.” 

Elegant fingers come to grasp Geralt's face, lute calloused thumbs brushing against his cheek bones. He doesn’t move as the poet traces his nose, his eyebrows and lips with gentle fingers; seeing such love and devotion in those baby blues he’d been dreaming about for so long. He closes his eyes, can’t take the way his bard marvels at him; it’s too much, too little, painful and soothing, warm yet ice cold, and he  _ can’t- _

“Go, sweet wolf,” Jaskier says, words hushed. “You don’t need to stay with me. I won’t make you watch. Go and save the world, and remember me the way I am now. Full of life, and so in love with you.” 

He’s tempted to leave. To tuck tail and run. Watching Jaskier die is too hard, too much to ask.

“No,” he rasps instead. “I’ve run from you long enough. No more.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, only to be silenced by lips ghosting over his; barely there, barely even a kiss. 

“I’m staying,” Geralt asserts once more, after pulling back. “I’m not letting you go.” 

They made love that night for the first time. 

Whispers of love pressed against heated skin as they grab onto each other, desperate to hold for just a bit longer. Tears wet and salty against the poet's cheeks; kissed away by Geralt as tenderly as he can manage. 

He takes his bard slowly, deeply; praying to the gods that Jaskier can feel his love, that it burns itself into the poet’s skin, so he’ll know forever, wherever he may go. 

Holds him tight against his chest as they bask in the afterglow. Ignores the way the human’s heart stutters and flutters from time to time. 

He won’t think about it. Not now. 

* * *

  
  


Jaskier dies on a warm, sunny day. Not a single cloud in the blue, blue skies. 

He falls asleep the night before, held close by Geralt; his breathing weak, laboured. His heart barely holding on.

_ “I love you,” _ the last words he whispers to the Witcher before his eyes fall shut; never to open again. 

Geralt stares at the body, being lowered into the ground. He doesn’t speak when Eskel clasps his shoulder, squeezing in an attempt to comfort. When Lambert attempts to grab the shovel to fill in the grave, Geralt almost strikes him. 

He grabs the shovel himself, carefully pouring the dirt onto the wooden coffin. They argue with him; tell him he doesn’t have to do this. That he’s suffered enough. Let them do this at least. 

He utters not a word, simply continues his task. 

He broke the poet's heart as surely as the sky was blue. He was at fault that a grave was even needed for his beautiful bard. He’d shoveled it. 

Now, he would fill it. 

  
  


* * *

Years later, he does not know how many, Geralt stumbles back onto the grave. 

He’s wounded, bleeding out onto the soil. Slumps against the headstone with a ragged groan; dying, yet still mindful of the flowers on his bards grave. Buttercups, Jaskier’s favorite. 

He’d spent decades coming back each year, paying his respects. Whispering the words he couldn’t say before into the dead of night. Hating himself for what he’d done.

“I’m coming, sweet bard,” he rasps, eyes fluttering slowly shut. “I’m coming home to you.” 


End file.
